Dragonfly Wings
by Ryyne
Summary: How Remus became 'Moony.' How Sirius told Remus he knew the werewolf's secret. And how Sirius is like dragonfly wings. [Mild SBRL slash implied. ONE-SHOT.]


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I know: surprise, surprise.

Thanks to my lovely beta **fleria**, who sticks with me regardless of my ubiquitous semi-colon use and incurable Draco-adoration.

**_Dragonfly Wings_**

By Ryyne

_"If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee." John Donne, "For Whom the Bell Tolls"_

A boy was sitting quietly at the edge of the lake, skipping stones. He was slender and delicate, with fine hair and a fair face. Long fingers were carefully examining round, grey stones, and the rippling water gentle lapped at the grassy shore. The May day, all in all, was perfect: sunny and bright, with a gentle breeze that mussed the boy's hair.

Remus hated it.

He hated the glaring sun, the too-brilliant lighting, and the annoyingly transient wind gusts. He hated the absolute _cheerfulness_. It was detestable, really, the way the sunlight seemed to pierce inside him, penetrate his soul, reveal his secrets. Remus much preferred cloudy or rainy weather; it seemed that the thick layer of fog was a blanket of secrecy, concealing him.

No doubt about it, Remus thought with a wry smile, he was a certifiable basket-case if there ever was one. He compulsively began to pick at the grass. Yes, he had some screwball tendencies, to be sure. Especially the one that came about once a month. Remus paused, and smirked to himself; 'tendency? So that's what I'm calling it now?'

He shook his head in frustration, and unbuttoned the cuffs of his oxford shirt, rolling up the sleeves. Flopping back upon the grass, his gaze turned up to the cloudless sky. Remus' eyes immediately began a fruitless search for the moon; it was around five in the afternoon.

A sudden shadow fell over him, and Remus instantly craned his neck in order to see what was blocking the sunlight. A, "Hello, Remus!" came from above. Turning on his stomach, he saw an amused grin and a striking, proud face. Sirius.

"Hello, Sirius," Remus said, politely.

"Hi," the other boy responded easily, his relaxed manner in conspicuous contrast to Remus' reserved one. "Since you've emerged from the library, safe and sound, I guess you finished the Potions essay alright?"

"Yes," Remus answered. A fleeting pause. "Would you like to sit down?"

"Wouldn't mind if I did," his companion said cheerfully. Naively, Remus thought. "What did you say the main aspects of dragonfly wings were, in your essay?"

_Small talk. _Remus smiled, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased. "Impermanence, distortion, and potency. They're listed in the textbook, in the back." His fingers started to twist the grass blades absentmindedly.

"Oh, right. I forgot about the glossary. I was looking all over the place." _Not surprising._

"Is that all?" Remus asked, almost unfeelingly civil. For a moment, Sirius' eyes seemed to flicker, and the dark brows knitted in an intensely thoughtful expression. Then it was gone, like a momentary beat of a dragonfly wing.

"Yeah, that's all. Thanks." Sirius made a move to rise, but then paused, a bit of the previous thoughtfulness creeping back into his demeanor. "Remus?"

"Yes?"

"We're friends, right?" After this was hurriedly blurted out, Sirius' face began to color, and Remus raised a brow, as if to say, _Of course? _"That is, I mean," Sirius continued, his eyes quickly moving to and from Remus, "Me and you and James and Peter. We're friends."

"Yes, why do you ask?" It was the end of third year, after all.

"Well – I mean – friends, they don't – they don't keep secrets from each other, really, do they?" Sirius said, his cheeks flushed. A hint of desperation tinted the thinly veiled question, and Remus' breath hitched. No, he couldn't have – How?

Keeping his voice steady, Remus assured his friend that, no, generally friends tell each other things. "Generally," he repeated again, for emphasis. "That is – not all the time." He forced himself to meet Sirius' eyes. "Sometimes, the truth is the worst thing."

"Like when?" Sirius' eyes were hard, steely, like cold flint; capable of igniting in a second, but for the moment dormant.

"Like – well –" Remus rarely stuttered. "If – if the truth is a horrible truth. If it's something that you wish wasn't true, but it _is_, and you can't do anything about it, even though you wish you could. Truths like that – sometimes can't be told." Sirius' expression was unreadable. "It's better not to," Remus added, now sounding every bit the wise scholar: analytical, seasoned, and calm.

"But if you can't control it, what does it matter? It's not your fault, then."

Remus was on the verge of panic. _No, no, you don't understand at all,_ he thought desperately. _Please, no. You're just – you don't know anything. You could never –_

"Right?" Sirius' intent voice interrupted the werewolf's thoughts.

"No!" Remus nearly yelled, then, shocked at himself, put his fingers to the bridge of his nose, in his usual defensive position. "I mean – no. It's not. Right, I mean."

Sirius just kept looking at him – Remus could see this, peeking between his fingers that were half-covering his eyes – and so he felt an urgent need to justify himself. "It doesn't matter if you can't control it. It's still there. It's a, a _part_ of you. And nothing else matters. With something like that – nothing else matters. It's a question of – _identity_," Remus explained, as clinically as he could.

Sirius was still staring at him, with a pitying, sad look in his grey eyes. Like dense, ashen fog. A gloomy blanket of secrecy. Surreal stilled beatings of insect wings, little moments in time when somehow, things are not just what they seem, and it seems that they never will be again.

The cloudy-eyed boy sighed, and rose from the grass. "Well, if you feel that way, Moony."

"I – 'Moony?'" _This would be an excellent time to pass out from anxiety. Now. Yes, right now._

The gorgeous young man standing above him smiled a small, wonderful smile, the bold corners of his lips curving marvelously. He shrugged his shoulders, his head tilted a bit to one side. "I suppose so. Right, Rem?"

"You – what – what?" Remus frantically got to his feet, and stepped backwards. He looked at if he was about to break into a sprint, or about to attack Sirius, his eyes unusually brazen and fierce.

Sirius just remained where he was, and the smile also remained. "You're Moony. And you're Remus. See, there's no question of identity – bloody hell, Remus!" He exclaimed, as Remus started shaking uncontrollably. Sirius stepped forward, in a move to embrace his friend, and Remus simultaneously took another step backwards. He opened his mouth, and his voice was intense, fierce, like the cutting leer of a wolf, and in severe contrast to the shaking of his body.

"You don't – you don't mind?"

Sirius chuckled sadly, and he forcefully gripped Remus' shoulders with both hands, forcing his friend to look at him. "You mean, besides the fact that you're in unbearable pain once a month, and that most people hate you, although they don't know they do?" Remus nodded. "No, I don't mind." And the corners of Sirius' eyes crinkled, making him look much, much older than his actual fourteen years.

And the corners of Remus' eyes began to glisten, and the next thing Sirius Black knew, his arms were around the other young man. "Moony, Moony, Moony," he whispered, as if the reciting of the name would convince Remus that – well – that he _was _Moony, and Moony was him, and that's perfectly fine, because Sirius loved him all the more for it.

"Does James know?"

"Sorry?"

"Do the others know?"

"Not yet. I haven't told them anything. I wanted to let you know first." And Remus smiled, because this was fine, really; because Sirius knew, and Sirius didn't mind, and that's at least _one person _out of a million. If one person didn't mind, was it not entirely unfathomable that _two _people wouldn't mind, or – God! – _three?_

What a wonderful thing _not minding_ was – But –

"But I'm dangerous," Moony said, his heart beating wildly. Did Sirius fully realize the extent of this? Hell! This wasn't a _prank._

Sirius merely smirked at the small young man. "Don't you remember, Moony? I'm the reckless and rebellious Sirius Black. I thrive on danger."

"I could _kill _you!"

"Only one night out of thirty," Sirius countered. Remus ran his hand through his fine hair, still agitated. "Moony, I swear to you; if I die," Remus rolled his eyes, _If? _" – If I die, it will definitely not be by a werewolf's fatal bite. Instead, I'll be bitten by a vampire and turn immortal," he joked.

The werewolf was not placated.

"God, Remus," Sirius continued in earnest, "I will never let that happen, and you won't, either. In fact," Sirius grinned, "I promise to you that I will end up dying a horribly boring death of completely natural causes. I'll lie there in the coffin with awful gray hair and wrinkles that clash horribly with the bright red cushioning. Satisfied?"

Remus laughed. "Promise?"

"Promise." A wide, ironic grin. "On pain of death."

_And the man woke up, breath coming in quick, painful gasps. He struggled to sit upright, and knocked over his bedside clock in an effort find his wand._

_"Lumos."_

_And the room was there, his bed was there, all the correct pictures and furniture were there. Just a dream, the man thought wildly, his prematurely graying hair unruly: not from a slight breeze, nor agitated motions, but from sleep._

Oh, God, _he thought, nearly incoherent._ Wind – grass – werewolves – Sirius – Moony –

Dragonfly wings, _he remembered himself saying; _Impermanence, distortion, and potency.

_Potency; potent passion, potent loyalty, potent hate. _

_Distortion; the perversion of truth, making a heaven of hell; a hell of heaven._

_Impermanence; fleeting happiness, fleeting embraces, fleeting times together. Quick, breathy kisses; quick, breathy admissions of love. Whether they were true or not; it didn't seem to matter._

_Remus closed his eyes. _Dragonfly wings,_ he thought, _are rather like you, Sirius.

_Impermanence._

_The transience of memories._

_The swiftness of death._

_Yes, Remus agreed, as he once again fell into tear-stained sleep. Exactly like you, Sirius._


End file.
